


A Tear In The Wings

by amorremanet



Series: the Chrysalis 'verse [2]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Body Image, Community: chubwinchesters, Community: hc_bingo, Drunken Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Food Issues, Holidays, M/M, Self-Destruction, Self-Esteem, Self-Loathing, Weight Gain, ableist slurs used as part of character voice, chubby!Jared, chubby!kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Jared ends up being right about the foreboding, just not for any of the reasons that he thinks he will be.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tear In The Wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emmylizzie](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=emmylizzie).



> This was written, first and foremost, as a holiday present for , who asked for Jensen/Misha or Jared/Misha with the prompt, "eggnog." Happy holidays, sweetheart. ♥ Other prompts used herein were: "confession in a desperate situation," "counseling," "headaches/migraines," and "wild card (body image issues)" for ; and "whisper" for 100 things ([random prompts](http://amor-remanet.livejournal.com/560116.html)).
> 
> This was also written for the [dice meme](http://chubwinchesters.livejournal.com/125936.html) with the roll of 1, 3, 1, 1, 2, which translates to chubby!Jared or Sam; _Button popping, weighing and/or measuring, tight clothing, humiliation, self-consciousness_ ; and a gain of forty pounds.

A couple of important things happen before they all graduate. Firstly, Misha loses weight like Jensen did before him—thanks to Coach Wilcox's extra gym sessions for the fat kids and thanks to following some aunt of his to Weight Watchers, he drops a good hundred pounds all during junior year, then keeps it off during senior year thanks to going out for soccer and the track team, just like Jensen did to keep his weight down. When they graduate, he barely weighs in at one-sixty, and Jared's half-convinced that Misha's going to have a party because Jensen's put a little weight back on—all of it muscle, unfortunately—so Misha weighs twelve pounds less than he does.

Because that's totally something to have a party over—because it's really that fucking important that Misha be thinner than his boyfriend—because, unfortunately, that doesn't sound entirely unlike something Misha would do to make himself feel better.

Secondly and much to his surprise, Jared finds that he kind of _minds_ getting left as the fat friend in their group. Sure, the extra gym sessions do well for him, too, by Coach's draconian and fat-phobic standards—Jared loses thirty pounds during junior year, puts twenty or so back on over the summer, and loses forty more when he spends senior year still stuck in Coach's extra gym sessions—but even getting down to two-forty by graduation doesn't really slim Jared down all that much. He's still bigger than everybody else in their class—in height as well as girth—and because of the way his thyroid and his meds for it work, he can put on five pounds just from looking at a slice of chocolate cake.

Not like any of this is _new_ , because it isn't, but having to be aware of it is new, and Jared finds it more than a little bit uncomfortable. Newfound sensitivity to the ups and downs of his weight makes him feel like he's responsible for them, even when he spends the summer between junior and senior years mostly eating like Jensen and Misha do, taking walks around the neighborhood for exercise, and still puts on those twenty pounds.

Jared hates the reason why he minds them getting skinny so much, too. He hates it because it's petty and he hates it because it makes him kind of an asshole. Mostly, he minds because Jensen and Misha are fucking _ridiculous_ , once they turn into what Jared's Momma would call an _Item_. They don't forget that they were ever fat—far from it and, well, how could they, especially when Coach insists on still calling Misha by all his demeaning, weight-related nicknames once he's gotten thin—but they talk about how much _better_ life is, now that they've lost weight. They go on about how they think Jared's so great for being confident in himself when he's still fat, how he's so inspirational for believing in himself and not needing anyone's approval to know how great he is.

He guesses it's supposed to make him feel like he's a badass or something, but mostly, it makes him want to punch both of them right in their skinny mouths. Especially once they start using those mouths to make out instead of fucking chin-wagging about how _inspirational_ Jared is—the least they could do is give him some warning and wait until he's out of the room.

Thirdly, Jensen and Misha break up amiably, agreeing to be just friends. They're going to college in different states, and it doesn't make sense for them to tie each other down when they're going to have so many opportunities. They stay together for the summer, and there's minimal angst involved in the break-up, and for all he knows it's really none of his damned business, Jared can't help feeling like this is just going to end badly, somehow. Maybe they're not each other's one true love after all—maybe they just had crushes that got to be a relationship for a little while and it was fun while it lasted, but that was never going to be forever—maybe a lot of things that all add up to Jared being perfectly ridiculous about everything…

But his lungs and stomach still twist around with foreboding when he goes off to Gamble University (in Michigan) while Jensen goes off to Kripke U (in Massachusetts) and Misha goes to Edlund College (out in San Francisco).

*******

Jared ends up being right about the foreboding, just not for any of the reasons that he thinks he will be. Sure, Jensen starts dating someone new—some blue-eyed guy named Chris, who's short, and skinny, and used to be a cheerleader—but Misha doesn't. Moreover, when Jared does Misha's mom a favor by picking his ass up from the airport, he goes and wastes a good ten minutes looking for the dick, only for some skinny guy he barely recognizes to come up and hug him. When they separate, Jared blinks at him, and it takes him drawling, _well, don't I at least get a hello?_ for Jared to realize that it's Misha—which is a major flub on Jared's part because his enormous eyes should've been a dead giveaway.

It's not that Misha's completely changed, but… he's not what Jared expected to see. Even when they drag his suitcase back to Jared's car, even when Jared drives Misha home, it's like this isn't really sinking in—because Jared went to the airport thinking that he'd find Misha a little chubbier than when he left for California. Jared expected that the Freshman Fifteen would get Misha's ass down hard, and someone would get to join him back in the realm of the (to some degree or another) overweight—but instead, he could cut diamonds on Misha's cheekbones and an old rainbow-colored friendship bracelet from his sister is practically falling off of Misha's wrist. His belt's notched up pretty damn tightly, and both his jacket and his obnoxiously blue sweater hang around his body, like he's dissolving into them.

"Yeah, I've lost a little bit of weight," he admits quietly, turning down the radio while they're at a red light. "Only fifteen pounds or so. It's something about California, Jay—I swear to God, they're mental about appearances out there. Appearance is nine-tenths of absolutely everything, at least, and most people need you to fit inside a certain box, and I guess one-sixty wasn't skinny enough for me to be an… overly intellectual, artistically inclined pseudo-hipster twink. I'm actually thinking I need to transfer over to somewhere in New York or Philadelphia or something, you know? Anywhere but California."

"Well, actually, I'd guess that I probably don't know? Since I've only ever been to California once and all?" Jared shrugs. Sighs. Since the light still hasn't changed, he turns his head so he can give Misha a long look, one that he hopes screams, _I'm so fucking disappointed in you right now that I could just kick something_. "But did you seriously lose weight—weight you really didn't need to lose at all, in any way, because you were skinny enough, just for the record and shit—so people you barely know would _like you more_? Do you have any idea how totally, profoundly _stupid_ that is? What happened to wanting to lose weight for your _health_ , Dumb-Ass?"

Misha rolls his eyes and sinks into the passenger seat, pouting like he's not getting a pony for Christmas. "Jensen's the one who cared about his weight for health reasons, Jay," he points out with a huff. "I just wanted to quit getting picked on every fucking day. And I just… It doesn't matter."

"Well, it matters to _me_ , Misha. And I think it should maybe, kind of, just a little bit matter to you _maybe_ —"

"That getting picked on shit started up _again_ in California, okay? You try sharing a room with one kid who's an aspiring fashionista and one who's already done some modeling work, and _you_ have both of them calling you Chunky or Plus-Sized or whatever other names you thought you left behind in high school, and _then_ you can talk to me about me losing weight out in California. Besides," he adds, slouching into the window, "sushi and vegetables are _good for you_."

"So's chocolate, if you don't eat it for every fucking meal," Jared says—and Misha has nothing to say back to that, so for a while, they just sit together in silence, listening to the pavement underneath of Jared's tires and "Don't Stand So Close To Me" playing on the classic rock station. Three more songs go by, but halfway through "Hotel California," Jared has to open his mouth again—he can't handle the amount of not talking to each other that they're doing while stuck in such an enclosed space:

"So, what, am I just not allowed to care about you anymore, San Francisco?" he says, snapping a little bit more than he intends. "I mean, one of my best friends in the entire world doesn't indicate that anything's wrong for _months_. Texts, emails, Facebook chats—no, everything's fine—and then he comes back for Christmas, looking like my fat ass will break him if I try to hug him—"

"I do _not_ look that bad." Misha sighs from the pit of his chest, shakes his head, and rolls his eyes so hard, it's a miracle that they don't pop out. "Quit exaggerating, okay, Jared?"

"I'm not exaggerating by all that much, Twiggy—and you're sorta really ignoring my question here? Am I not allowed to care about you anymore or what?"

Misha shrugs. "I never said that. I wasn't even thinking it. How about you? Did you ever think that maybe I didn't indicate that anything was wrong because—and bear with me here, because I'm gonna get complicated? But maybe I didn't say anything was wrong because nothing is fucking _wrong_?"

"Yeah, try telling that to me when you _don't_ look ready to pass out against my window." It's harsher than Jared necessarily means to be—but he tells himself that Misha needs to hear this. And that makes everything he says okay.

*******

Maybe Jared just wanted Misha to get hit with the Freshman Fifteen—the one where he would've put fifteen pounds on instead of shaving them off—because he wanted someone else to be stuck in the trenches with him, stuck dealing with the effects of dorm food and an awful lot of sitting around on their body and their metabolism. The extra weight from the dorms hit Jared pretty hard, despite trying to eat well and despite walking to center campus from a dorm at the furthest south end every day. He's not even as big as he used to be, and he's still hyper-aware of the fact that he's gained the Freshman Forty—he's aware of how it all sits on him.

If Jared could undo one thing, he'd undo ever losing weight in the first place—ever developing this consciousness of how his weight feels on him at different milestones—ever getting able to tell when he's lost weight or put it on based on feeling alone, rather than any toying around with his jeans or his old uniforms. Somehow, the forty pounds that have crept back onto his frame this semester don't show as much as he would've expected: the last time he weighed in anywhere close to two-eighty, his waist was almost a full sixty inches around, but when curiosity gets the better of him and he checks things out, his waist clocks in at just barely fifty-six inches. _Barely_.

Of course, he's still fat—there's pretty much no way that Jared could get around something like that, with how much he weighs, even considering how tall he is. Even the fact that he's not as fat as he has been before doesn't change the most basic truths of the matter.

Getting ready for Christmas dinner with the whole family, Jared still blinks at his chubby-cheeked reflection, at his double-chin (which is slightly less pronounced than it was in high school, and Jared's really not sure how he feels about that). He still brushes his fingers up and around the fleshy curve of his stomach as he does up all the buttons on his shirt. Once he gets the thing on, he still fills it out pretty thoroughly, round hips and love-handles still straining at the seams, and tossing on a snug sweater-vest does little to conceal that, not least because he can't tuck in his shirt and he has to do his trousers up underneath where his soft, warm paunch sags down over his waistband.

He still gets it in his head to see how much he weighs before dinner, and sucking in his gut, he still stares down at the readout and has to sigh. It glares up at him with the figure, _282.5_ —sweet tap-dancing zombie Jesus, another two-and-a-half pounds. That's what two weeks of Christmas cookies and sweets will get him. Every single time, pretty much. He should've known better than to eat as much as he has, but _'tis the season_ seemed like justification enough at the time.

On the plus, it's not like anybody can actually act like this is Jared's fault—no matter what he's telling himself, no matter how much he's starting to sound like Misha, all blaming himself for his weight in dark, disgusting, ugly ways, Jared has a medical condition. It's diagnosed and on all his forms and everything. He could've eaten better since he's gotten home from school, of course he could have—but any weight lost never stays off with him, so worrying about it's pretty fucking pointless, a waste of energy.

Jared just wishes that he believed in that as much as he used to—that it was as easy as it was in high school to remind himself that the number on the scale says nothing about him as a person, or about who he is, or about anything that actually matters. That'd be his Christmas miracle. And it would be a great goddamn Christmas miracle, too.

*******

Further on the plus, Jensen's at least gotten it in his head to talk about something other than weight, or losing it, or any of that bullshit. Not that Jared ever worried about him being obsessed with it like Misha, but it's still a relief to learn that he was right about his favorite cousin, to learn that Jensen has other things on his mind than the little bit of pudge that crept back onto his middle while he was away in Massachusetts.

Jared can even stomach all the lovey-dovey, honeymoon period swooning over his boyfriend that Jensen gets up to over Christmas dinner—which is a good thing, because for a while, almost every other word out of Jensen's mouth is _Chris_ and almost every other sentence is about him—and Jared can put up with that because at least it's not weight-talk or worrying about Misha.

He shouldn't let himself get used to that, though—not least because Misha is Jensen's best friend, too, and Jensen's not oblivious enough to miss how Misha's been lately—but Jared slips up, on that count. He lets himself slide nicely into a conversation that has nothing to do with whether or not anybody's gotten too skinny, or getting too skinny, or did Jared get a little chunkier out at school or is Aunt Donna just imagining things, well it's no trouble if he did—there's a gift receipt in his present, anyway, so he can go exchange it for something bigger, if he needs to do that.

Jared gets all warm and contented, just blabbing with Jensen about classes, and Chris, and how finals went, and Chris, and what life's like at their respective schools, and Chris, and Chris, and Chris, and more Chris, and did Jensen mention Chris yet—and because Jared lets himself get used to this trajectory, it all comes crashing down around his ears, shattering like glass almost as soon as Jensen flops next to Jared on the couch, almost as soon as he goes and opens up his obnoxious, pretty mouth. It's what Jared gets for thinking, even a little bit, that he could get out of this.

"So, dude," Jensen says with a sigh, in the middle of the tumult of people trading presents and fresh off some ramble about how Chris is writing a screenplay he wants to maybe get produced. "You've got to try to talk some sense into Misha—we've been out jogging together for the past few days and… I don't know, but I'm really getting worried about him."

Jared slouches into the sofa and rolls his eyes so hard that it hurts. "So you've noticed that California made him go completely insane?" he says.

Jensen shrugs guiltily, flushing pink and letting his eyes dart around like someone might judge him for what he's about to say. "I wouldn't really say that… For one thing, it's really negatively stigmatizing about mental health and not that cool—but for another thing? I don't think he's, like, actively a danger to himself or anything—I think he just needs some help before he _gets_ that far gone, you know?"

"Well, actually, I don't know, but that's because I think he _is_ actively a danger to himself, so maybe I'm biased." Jared's only willing to cop to being biased because if he doesn't, then Jensen will call him on it—but even though he's cutting off that possibility at the knees, Jared can't quite help the feeling that Jensen wants to smack him upside the head or something similar. "Besides, what makes you think he'll listen to me?"

"Uhm, mostly the fact that he's not listening to _me_ and I want to hold out hope for something good?" Jensen tries to grin, but he can't keep it up for long. "It's just. He won't listen, but he really doesn't seem okay. Not just that he doesn't look okay, but his behavior and shit, too. He tries to turn jogging into racing, and I'm pretty sure he stays out longer than I do, and considering our rounds around the neighborhood always go for an hour or so…"

Jared grinds his thumb and forefinger along the bridge of his nose—this whole mess of shit is going to give him a migraine, if he's not careful. "Fine," he says, burrowing back into the cushions some more. "Fine, I'll see what I can do. But trust me when I say that I'm promising absolutely nothing."

*******

On the one hand, getting some answers out of Misha proves easier than Jared ever would've bargained for—but on the other hand, Jared has to do this alone, in an empty house, through the strategic application of leftover eggnog. All of the leftover eggnog, as it happens, just because it takes a while to get Misha talking.

Jared has a few glasses himself, just so Misha won't get suspicious, but he's bigger than Misha and he drinks less than Misha does—Jared's practically sober, for fuck's sakes, whereas Misha ends up sliding and falling all over the sofa, muttering about how eggnog practically counts as empty calories because of the alcohol, regardless of anything else that's gone into making the stuff.

As it turns out, Misha's habits aren't as entirely unhealthy as Jared wanted to think they were. He eats regularly—some several approximately snack-sized meals, always low in both carbs and fat—and maybe he works out more than Jared thinks he should, but an hour to an hour-and-a-half of running every day probably can't be all that bad for him. Eating right and working out never killed anybody, as far as Jared knows.

And Jared's certain that Misha isn't bullshitting him about anything he says because he's tripping over the easiest freaking words, having trouble even stringing sentences together on the most basic level. There's no way that he could be coming up with some complicated lies to explain away any unhealthy behaviors he could hypothetically be running around with and dealing in.

What decidedly isn't healthy, though, is what Misha ends up saying as the night winds down and they run out of eggnog—what he has to go and say when they're on the floor to keep from falling off the sofa, right as soon as Jared's ready to believe that there's nothing wrong with him at all:

He slumps back into the foot of the sofa, leans his head back on the cushions, sighs, and tells Jared, "Y'know, whatever all ends up happening with your thyroid, Jay? Swear to God that you won't ever start obsessing about this shit for me, okay? About the weight shit, I mean. And the food stuff, too, but especially the weight stuff. Please?"

"Because you don't want me to end up like you?" Jared can't help scoffing—he knows that he shouldn't when things are so serious, but really, the thought of him obsessing like Misha—he would laugh about it, if not for the fact that the whole situation feels really… _grey_. Too quiet and wound too tightly and just so very _grey_. Still, Jared deadpans, "Because you realize that you have a problem and you don't want me to catch it from you or something?"

"Yeah, a little bit," he admits. "Because I think I need help and I don't think anybody can really help me? But it's more, like, because you don't even need to obsess about it, you know that, right? You're a _good person_ , Jay. You're good, and you're beautiful, and you could have guys lining up around the block to date you, if you wanted them to… You don't have to fit into some societally prescribed box of what does or doesn't count as attractive. Anybody would be lucky to date you—and they know it, too."

Jared doesn't have the heart to tell Misha that he's full of shit, that no one's ever been into him like that.

Misha just sighs and stares at his lap as Jared tries to process what he's just heard—and before he's really wrapped his brain around it, he has to deal with Misha running his mouth off again: "Now, me? Nobody but Jensen ever wanted me until I got skinny—and he even liked me better once I lost the weight—and they're quite right to hold me to that kind of standard, too, y'know. They're not—I mean, it's not—it's nothing personal that they didn't want me. They just twigged on how I'm nothing special. Nothing anybody in their right mind wants."

"Shut up," Jared says and slouches back against the couch. He wrinkles his nose at Misha, and for a moment, he can't think of anything to say. Neither can Misha, but when he opens his mouth again, Jared cuts him off: "No, seriously, shut _up_. You're not… I don't know where you got this in your head, but Jensen _never_ liked you better over something so shallow as that—he just didn't, and Misha, you're not… You're great—and I mean it. You're really great—you know that, don't you? Say you know it."

Misha looks up at Jared with some expression that he can't quite read—it's trying to be a smile, but it's too wobbly, it's too unsteady to really be a smile. He bats at Jared's shoulder, tries to shove him over, but he's put all his work lately into his legs, into running—the intent is clear, though, and Jared makes good on it for Misha's benefit. He twines his fingers up in Misha's shirt, pulls him over into a kiss. He flops back and sprawls out onto the floor and pulls Misha along with him; Misha wriggles a bit by way of stretching out on top of him and vaguely, it strikes Jared how light Misha is, how he barely sinks into Jared's flab.

Misha doesn't have to say anything—it's obvious from the way he throws himself headlong into their kisses that he doesn't know what Jared's talking about, that he doesn't know how great he is. And if it's true what he's saying about Jensen—Jared doubts that it's any kind of true, but if it is, then Jared might just have to pulverize his cousin—there's too much going into the way that Misha sucks on Jared's lower lip for Jared to just focus on how everything feels, how Misha's skin is warm when Jared brushes his pudgy fingers underneath the hem of Misha's t-shirt, rests them on the small of Misha's back. He kisses back, but it's almost automatic.

It's almost reflexive—just something that he has to do, because for all his mind's gone wandering, he wants to kiss Misha—because he wants Misha to get it through his head that someone cares about him, about what he's doing to himself over his roommates and their shitty fucking attitudes. But should he trust his actions to speak for themselves? Can he trust them to speak for themselves?

Eventually, Jared decides not. Eventually, breathing becomes an issue—they have to separate, and Misha writhes against Jared again, sliding down his front so he can rest his head on the flesh padding Jared's collarbone. And as he reaches up to card his fingers through Misha's hair, he says, "You might need help, Misha. You might need more than Jensen and I can really give you? But I'll be here for you through it, if you want."


End file.
